


sloth

by violentdarlings



Series: seven [1]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Insecurity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 13:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5929590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She drives you mad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sloth

"You look tense," she comments as you pore over a law review. You agree. You know from experience there is a crumpled furrow between your brows, a crooked line of stress and worry and exhaustion – well, so should there be. You are exhausted, and you want nothing more to slip sideways down onto Bridget's ugly couch and sleep for a week. The tension in your shoulders and neck will soon start a chain reaction in your skull until it feels like a marching band has taken up residence, your eyelids will droop and your attention span will decrease - you've been here before. Sitting in your cold, sterile house with nothing but work and your empty bed to look forward to, the sheer aloneness of it stabbing at your heart. And below that, the dual sensation that it will never end, you will be sitting at your desk alone for the rest of your life, working into the night until exhaustion drives the emotions away.

Except now you're not.

Now you're sitting in Bridget's cramped, cosy flat, with her making tea in the kitchen and humming tunelessly to herself in between shooting you glances of concern. Her comment pierces the shroud of tiredness slowly gathering around you; as she brings the tea around to the sofa and curls next to you, wakefulness returns in slow waves.

She plucks the papers from beneath your hands and studies them with a comical expression of absorption, articulating the beginning with exaggerated emphasis. You force a laugh and let your head hit the back of the sofa, the gentle thunk distracting her. Through slitted eyes you see her regarding you, and the languid expression of contemplation in her eyes creates a very different reaction in you than her staring at you as you sleep does.

"Hmm," she hums in thought, and you only barely register as the warmth of her soft body slides away, nudges your legs apart as she perches herself between your knees on the floor. Your eyes open, half disbelieving and half amused, as she slips off your shoes and socks, undoes your belt.

"Bridget..."

"Like I said," she says, that familiar smirk tugging at her lips, "you're tense. So..."

She pulls down your trousers with adroit skill as you lift your hips to assist, the cool air on your skin making you gasp.

"We could do something about it."

And as she lowers her head you're lost, lost in the mystery of this woman who touches you like it's her dream, her pleasure, to be with you. Who does this kind of thing - give you a blowjob, for God's sake - on the couch, just because you look tense. Things like this just don't happen to you, happen to Mark "Arsey" Darcy and girls like Bridget - _women_ like Bridget - don't touch you and kiss you and curl around you at night like a blanket and a shield all in one.

Except she does. And happily you forget about work, about anything other than Bridget, even though you know tomorrow morning at work you'll regret it. You can't bring yourself to stop her, not now, not with her talented hands and lips and heart against you, melting the frost, coaxing you alive.

The tea goes cold.


End file.
